Assassin's Honor (Assassins of Landria Book 1)

by Gail Z. Martin

  “They’re talking,” Rett said, breaking the silence. “Polite chatter. Wait—Lord Rondin’s gone to fetch Makary. Everyone’s abuzz.”

  “Can you see him yet?”

  “Door’s opening. Rondin’s putting on quite a show.” Distaste colored Rett’s voice. “There he is. Bloody bollocks. Skinny man with a hermit’s beard and long hair. Looks like he’s been sleeping in the woods. Tattered monk’s robe that past due for washing. Bare feet. But…”

  “What?”

  “Power,” Rett said, rubbing his temples. “I can feel it.”

  “So he really is a witch?”

  “Or something,” Rett replied. “Gods, they’re fawning all over him. Even Henri feels the pull. Maybe that’s his magic, some kind of influence…”

  Ridge gestured for Rett to be quiet, and neither man moved until the guards down the slope had passed by on their rounds. Ridge didn’t know how sound carried here and had no desire to find out. “All clear.”

  “He…makes you want to look at him,” Rett said, sounding puzzled. “He’s not handsome, but he’s…interesting. Compelling. His accent’s from the foothills, but I don’t think it’s real. And his eyes…he’s sharp. Sizing them up.”

  “What else?”

  “They all rose to shake his hand…now they’re sitting down again. He’s got the seat of honor. Rondin’s standing behind him like a proud papa.”

  “Glad I can’t see.”

  Rett went silent for a while, and Ridge fought the urge to prod for details. They had agreed to keep conversation minimal, so repeating conversation word-for-word was not an option. That meant giving Rett time to digest what was said and convey the gist, while not missing the next comments.

  “He’s got the accent of a poor farmer, and chooses his words like a scholar,” Rett finally continued. “I think the ‘farmer’ part is an act. He might not have money, but he’s been around it. He’s not distracted enough by the jewels and fancy surroundings.”

  Rett had come from the streets, and Ridge’s family had been poor. Ridge remembered being struck wordless in astonishment the first time they had been summoned to the palace amid the casual opulence of the truly wealthy. Makary’s ease with the powerful men and women who would have been his “betters” and his acceptance of the luxury around him suggested that regardless of his beginnings, he was now no stranger to wealth and privilege.

  “It’s like he has them under a spell, but I don’t think it’s actually magic,” Rett reported. “Like those actors at the theater, he’s one of those people who pulls you in.” He went silent again, listening. “He doesn’t say anything outright treasonous, but his arguments make you feel discontented. He praises the nobles, says what a shame it is they aren’t appreciated more…should have more input…should be more involved in the governing…”

  “So he doesn’t attack the king, but he damns with faint praise,” Ridge grumbled. “Stokes their vanity, leaves them feeling unappreciated, even if they didn’t before.”

  “Henri has to step out to fetch something,” Rett said. “Back with the servants in the kitchen. There are whispers. The maids don’t like the way Makary looks at them. They say he raises their hackles. They don’t trust him. There’s talk of curses for those who cross him, bad luck. Someone says their mistress claims he brings good fortune.” He paused. “Henri is going back. Makary’s still talking.”

  “That kind likes to hear their own voice. What now?”

  Rett tilted his head as if he were listening in person, straining to hear a faint voice. “Spinning a tale about how things might be if the nobles could be heard more. Everyone richer, more trade, take a firm hand with the rabble,” he added, making a face. “They liked that part. Rid of the beggars and the lepers. Says there are ways to keep blight away from the crops and locusts out of the fields.”

  “And they believe him?” Ridge asked, incredulous.

  “They’re eating it up, practically drooling,” Rett said. “Starting to talk amongst themselves now, embroidering on his ideas. Going farther. Ah…now there’s veiled criticism of the king, swearing the others to secrecy.”

  “And I bet Makary is loving every minute.”

  “Smiling proudly,” Rett replied. “He doesn’t have to say anything dodgy, and they’ll protect each other. Seems to have hit a nerve about not being appreciated. Talmudge and Sandicott’s son, especially. The king doesn’t take their advice, doesn’t ask for their opinions, doesn’t recognize their value. King’s too cloistered with his council—”

  “That part might actually be true,” Ridge replied. “Old blood, old ways of thinking. They all echo each other. Like how he hasn’t taken Makary seriously.”

  “Talk of a petition to make the king change his council.”

  “Good luck with that,” Ridge muttered. “Can’t imagine a petition going over well.”

  “Ah…now the tempers rise. Farnston and Penwort talking about taxes being too high, not enough patrols on the roads to keep down highwaymen. More complaints about everything wrong in the kingdom. No one’s saying it, but the impression is that Kristoph could fix it if he wanted to.”

  “Figures,” Ridge said. “He gets them worked up, points them in the right direction, and lets them go. Then he just sits back, and they think he’s a prophet.”

  “Uh oh,” Rett said, his expression wary.

  “What?”

  “He’s warning them that not everyone shares his views…some would like to see him silenced…his servants have been beaten and killed…he fears for his life.”

  “Damn right,” Ridge muttered. Rett gestured for him to be silent.

  “There’s outcry…of course they’re pushing to find out who might be behind it. He doesn’t name the king outright. Oh, gods. Says he’s being pursued by assassins. Shadows. Which throws blame on the king anyhow. They’re angry. Makary’s the vulnerable victim, a misunderstood wiseman.” Rett practically choked on his outrage.

  “Time to get Henri out of there,” Ridge said. “Time for us to be gone, too.”

  Rett doubled over, and his hands cradled his head. “A warning. From Sofen. Need to go.”

  Ridge reached down and helped Rett to his feet, moving carefully to avoid making any noise that might attract the attention of the guards patrolling the yard.

  “Can you warn Henri?” Ridge asked.

  Rett clasped his hand around the amulet and closed his eyes. “I think so,” Rett gasped, his face tightening in concentration as he tried to marshal his power. “Just a word—”

  His knees buckled, and Ridge kept him upright. “That’s it. We’re heading for the horses.” Rett went rigid in his grasp, back arching and hands closing into fists. Ridge’s hold on his arm tightened as his alarm grew. “Rett?”

  “Henri,” he gasped. “They’re on to him.”

  “Sard,” Ridge muttered. “All right. I’ll get you to the horses, and go back for Henri.”

  “Go. I’ll make it there.”

  “Gonna crawl? Because you sure as the Pit can’t walk,” Ridge snapped. “Come on. The faster I drag your ass to the horses, the sooner I can pull Henri’s ass out of the fire.”

  As if on cue, the sound of an explosion and the roar of flames broke through the quiet afternoon. Ridge turned, staring across the lawn toward the manor house to see a wall of fire rising between the woods and the grand home, and a man running toward the carriages that were fastened in front.

  “Cooking oil,” Ridge muttered. “That wasn’t water. That had to be cooking oil. And one of our bombs. We really ought to increase his wages. That’s sarding brilliant.”

  Before the guards could catch him, Henri had untethered a carriage and its horses and thrown himself into the driver’s seat, snapping the reins as he dragged himself up. The toes of his shoes slewed through the gravel as the horses bolted, spooked by the fire. The carriage almost rolled up onto two wheels as Henri crawled onto the floor by the driver’s bench, keeping low to stay out of the hail of arrows raining down
from the manor’s highest towers.

  “Halt!”

  Ridge froze, then felt anger surge. “Shit,” he muttered. Rett shifted, taking his own weight through sheer dint of will. Ridge raised his hands, turning slowly to see two guards dressed in Lord Rondin’s livery with their swords drawn.

  “The

  “The lord’s going to want to know what you’re doing, trespassing on his land,” the taller of the two guards warned. The shorter man gave an amused snort.

  “I bet he would,” Ridge growled.

  Training and practice meant Ridge and Rett moved in synchronicity without the need for words or even a shared glance. Rett groaned loudly and listed to one side, drawing the guards’ attention as he stumbled. That distraction provided all Ridge needed to drop throwing daggers from his wrist sheaths and hurls the knives, burying the blades deep in the chests of the two unlucky guards.

  Ridge managed to catch Rett before he hit the ground since the collapse had been more real than not. “They’ll have friends,” Ridge muttered, getting his shoulder under Rett’s arm and nearly dragging him along.

  Voices shouted from behind them, warning them to stop, threatening consequences. Unless the men had bows and could shoot while running, Ridge felt sure they could reach their mounts before the men could catch them.

  Branches and bushes tore at their skin and yanked their hair as they ran through the underbrush. Rett stumbled, nearly taking them down, but Ridge had a grip on the younger man that would probably bruise. “Nearly there,” he panted, putting on a final burst of speed to afford them a few extra seconds to mount their horses.

  Ridge helped Rett up to his horse, then swung into his saddle, and the two urged their mounts to a gallop. The angry guards shouted and cursed behind them, but without bows, there was nothing they could do to stop the fleeing trespassers.

  After they had traveled a few miles without pursuit, once Ridge assured himself that the guards had not followed, he slowed. Their horses were flecked with sweat and Rett had a dazed look as if he only barely hung on to his seat. Ridge climbed down and led his horse to a stream to drink as Rett did the same.

  “Now what?” Rett asked, leaning against a tree. He looked spent from the magic and the unexpected vision. After a moment, Rett let himself slide down to sit on the ground as they watched their horses. Ridge stood nearby, where he could still keep an eye out for danger.

  “Don’t know,” Ridge confessed. “That went better—and much worse—than I expected. If the Witch Lord was able to read anything at all from Henri, we sure as the gods can’t go home. I’m glad Henri provisioned the safe houses. We’ll go to the first one and hope he meets us there.”

  “Think he got away?”

  Ridge pushed aside the worry that had gnawed at him since he’d seen Henri’s catastrophic exit. “Yeah. I’m sure he did,” he replied, forcing himself to sound more certain than he felt for Rett’s sake.

  He looked at his partner, taking in how utterly spent Rett looked, leaning against the tree as if he could fall asleep on the spot. “We’re either going to have to figure how to build up your stamina or do without magic,” Ridge said. “It’s not worth it if it kicks your ass every time. If it’s a choice between magic or you being able to fight, I’d rather you have my back.”

  “I won’t always be able to choose,” Rett said. “We needed to see what happened in the house.”

  “Henri could have just reported what—and who—he saw,” Ridge argued. “The Witch Lord probably picked up on the magic from the amulet. That made it more risky, not less.”

  “There’s no guarantee that someone wouldn’t have gotten suspicious of Henri no matter how we did it, and since we saw what he did, if he’d gotten into real trouble, we would have known.”

  Ridge dug through his pack and tossed some dried meat to Rett. “Eat something. We’ve still got a long ride, and I don’t want to have to tie you to your saddle.”

  “Not funny,” Rett muttered, but he ate the food quickly, and Ridge guessed that channeling the magic had stoked his appetite.

  “I’m not against using magic,” Ridge said, choosing his words with care. “I never held with what the monks said—you know that. We both have the Sight, and it hasn’t been a problem. But we don’t really know anything about what else you can do, except what pops out at the damnedest times.”

  “Which has saved our asses more than once,” Rett pointed out through a mouthful.

  “Granted. And I don’t know of anyone safe to ask, someone who could teach you. I’m just afraid that one of these times, you’re going to try to do something, and it’s gonna come back on you somehow, bad.” Ridge paced as he spoke. “Maybe something I can’t fix. And I really don’t like to think about that.”

  Ridge knew that the rest of the Shadows worked solo. Even when the assassins met up in neutral territory like the Black Wolf, it reminded him of predators circling each other, competing to find out who topped the pecking order. Maybe the idea of being beholden to no one, dependent on nobody held an allure for the others. Then again, given the number of Shadows who died young and badly, either from strikes gone wrong, by their own hand, or at the bottom of a bottle of whiskey or the dregs of an opium pipe suggested that the solitary life had its own perils.

  “We’ll figure it out,” Rett said, pushing himself up to stand as the horses finished drinking. “We’d better get moving. No use letting them catch up.”

  “They won’t,” Ridge assured him, squeezing Rett’s shoulder to see if he was steady on his feet. “I just hope Henri has plenty of food and ale stocked for us since I don’t imagine showing our faces in the pub is a good idea right now.”

  Chapter Twelve

  They chose a roundabout way to the city, sticking to back roads, wary of other travelers. Once they reached Caralocia, they had several bolt holes, and beyond the city even more. The sanctuaries were smaller and had fewer comforts than their previous rooms, but far surpassed sleeping outside or finding shelter in abandoned hovels—both of which Ridge and Rett had done more often than they liked to recall. Rented under false names, maintained anonymously for months without being used, the rooms gave them a place to fall back and recover where even Burke would have trouble locating them.

  By the time Henri caught up, Ridge and Rett were well along in altering their appearance. Cropping his black hair short made a stark initial change for Ridge. Growing a beard and slouching to hide his height would further the transformation, as well as switching out their usual dark clothing for the rough homespun and woolen garments of a laborer. Rett sat near the fire, letting warmth and vinegar lighten his chestnut hair, which he had also cut shorter.

  Both men rose, weapons ready, when a key sounded in the door. Henri entered, hair windblown and face reddened by the cold.

  “Thank the gods,” their squire huffed. “I didn’t know if you’d gotten away.”

  “We saw your grand exit,” Ridge said, managing a tired grin. “A bit memorable, wasn’t it?”

  Henri averted his eyes, but Ridge thought he looked rather proud of himself. “It worked. Everything I know, I’ve learned from the two of you.”

  Rett chuckled. “He’s got you there.”

  “What did you do with the carriage?” Ridge hurried to get a cup of hot tea for Henri, who looked half-frozen.

  “I should be fussing over you, not the other way around,” Henri chided.

  “You look like something the cat dragged in,” Ridge countered.

  “I left the carriage down an alley a mile or so away,” Henri replied as he sank into a chair by the fire. “I suspect the horses will be fine—given the crest on the rig, no one would dare harm them.”

  “You didn’t mind stealing them.”

  “I’m a bit less intimidated by nobility than your average ruffian.”

  “Because we’re above-average ruffians?” Rett asked, and Henri spared them an exhausted smile.

  “Quite.”

  Ridge and Rett had already scrounged
a cold supper for themselves from the supplies, augmented by a loaf of bread Rett insisted on buying from a street vendor on the way back. A chicken, along with potatoes and onions, had been a purchase from another stall, and the combination stewed in a pot at the front of the fire, filling the small haven with the smell of roasting meat.

  “We saw a lot,” Ridge said once Henri had eaten. He relayed the scenes he’d glimpsed of the gathering. “Was there anything else we might not have noticed? And how did they figure you?”

  “I suspect I paid more attention than a servant should have,” Henri replied ruefully. “Sorry about that. Or maybe Makary picked up on the amulet after a while. I guess we won’t ever know.”

  Henri pushed his chair back and sighed. “I’m thinking that if I shaved my head and my beard, it might do the trick.” He glanced at their altered appearance and giving a wan smile. “Sorry. My thoughts wandered.” After a moment and a few swallows of tea, he looked up once more.

  “As for what you might not have seen, I don’t think I had the amulet active all of the time I was in the kitchen. There’s always gossip, but I didn’t know how much the spell would drain us, and I wanted to save it for the Witch Lord himself, so I muted the amulet a few times. I had forgotten how much the staff talk among themselves! None of them liked Makary; they said he made their skin crawl,” Henri confided.

  “Then they’re smarter than their masters,” Rett replied. “Anything else?”

  Henri nodded. “One of the Talmadge maids said something that made me think perhaps her master has a slave child from the caravan. Mentioned ‘the boy they brought’ and how he keeps to his room.”

  “That’s good—we know where to find one of them,” Ridge said. “What about the others?”

  “The Sandicotts’ maid said something about how the lord himself was too sick to come and sent his son in his stead,” Henri replied. “Whatever the ailment, it came on slowly and has the man bedridden.”